We don’t make the party, we are the party: Trapier-Duporté inside Third Place.

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Initially this text came from an intuition, altogether banal and shared these days, that art is happening somewhere else. Or at least, somewhere other than the usual places: art centers, art schools and galleries. In any case, it’s the feeling that art is no longer happening, at least not “here”, and the hope of finding it again, perhaps, somewhere else.   We can gloss over the anxiety and suspicion that has accompanied this concept since its invention in the modern era: art, like criticism, is by nature in crisis. “In an 1810 book about hunting, people bitterly complained about the disappearance of game”, muses Olivier Cadiot in Histoire de la littérature récente. Tome I. “Oh, it’s not like before. Under Louis XV, there were rabbits, my dear, and in abundance1.” It is the end of History, of the universalism of the Enlightenment, of reconciliatory art contributing to the meta-narrative of progress, the triumph of expressivism 2.0: the legitimate but rather old-fashioned demand for unity is in a state of frustration. In its place, a multitude of little narratives: for the…

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